


Wash

by yeaka



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 20:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13085127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Silas finds Panto bathing in the lake and questions their propriety.





	Wash

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Currently taking Dirk Gently requests [on my tumblr (that follow my request rules)](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/168742234160/dirk-gently-requests) so let me know if you want one~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a long session with the scissor sword, Silas just doesn’t have the energy to make it all the way back home, not so sweaty and run ragged. Wygar can, of course, but he doesn’t mind a bit of sweat, a bit of dirt. Silas likes to be _clean_. In the absence of a bathtub, he wanders down to the little lake half hidden through the trees. He sets his blade next to his boots as he strips down beneath a willow, its cascading branches offering a haze of near-privacy. It isn’t _quite_ appropriate for someone of Silas’ stature to enjoy the water bare, but Wygar’s already gone, and if he sticks to this little grotto, he should pass unseen.

The water’s still and warm when he first slips into it. The drop from the bank is sharp and sudden, the grass abruptly cutting off as the water swallows its surroundings. The willow’s arms dip all around him like a spotty curtain—one made of cutout lace. The light that flickers through is all the lovelier for the green-yellow of the leaves, and its reflections are a bright white on the blue-green water. Silas immerses himself, lets his feet sink to the very bottom, ducking his head below the surface, then rises for a new breath and the coolness of the air. He brushes the water back from his eyes and sets to splashing it across his skin, washed golden-brown in the morning sun.

He catches himself before he starts to hum. There are times, of course, where he wants to just _break free_ , to live like all his people do—to have no fear of being seen in the wrong places, or worse, _with the wrong people_. But freedom’s hardly worth his mother’s wrath, so he sticks to his hiding place and keeps himself as quiet as the rest of his surroundings.

The peace is broken only minutes later by a familiar tune hummed low across the water, and the faintest of dying ripples laps over Silas’ own. His eyes follow the movement, and he drifts closer to the edge of his isolated space. When he peers between the branches, he spots another figure farther along the stream.

Silas’ breath hitches. He’d know that body anywhere, in any state, just as he knew the voice, but he hadn’t dared to hope. The man’s back faces Silas, his broad shoulders slicked with sunlight, the long line of his spine visible right to his tailbone. He must be farther up the shallow shore, because the water hits him only at his waist, revealing more than enough creamy skin for Silas’ eyes to hungrily devour. The man scoops water up in his palms, then brings it back to splash through his light pink hair, and his long fingers massage it in. Silas watches every last bead of water drizzle down the man’s thick neck and chiseled back. There’s no greater sight in all of Wendimoor.

And Silas feels guilt for it, because such a vision should not be stolen, but given freely, and it would be cowardly to observe any more from the shadows. Yet, he still hesitates, because he knows that once he reveals himself, they’ll both have to withdraw, and he might never get such a radiant view again. 

Panto’s song crescendos, his voice ringing clearer, louder, and Silas allows his himself to wait for its end. He savours those few moments, entranced with everything that is _Panto Trost._

Then Panto sighs the end, and Silas pushes forward. Panto tenses at even the faint sound of Silas brushing through the leaves, as Silas knew he would—Panto is a great warrior, and of course he’s ready. He turns deliberately towards the noise, wading carefully back through the reeds, and then his eyes find Silas, and he stops. 

His lips smile, genuine and pure, before his gaze trails down the growing view of Silas’ body. The closer he steps, the higher the ground becomes, the more that he’s revealed. By the time he stops, the water’s only halfway up his stomach. Silas wonders vaguely if Panto can _see_ the rapid beating of his heart. Panto’s no longer smiling.

Silas is the first to speak. He clears his throat and offers as casually as he can manage, “I did not know that the Trosts also used this place for easy bathing.”

“It lies so close to our valley,” Panto answers, his eyes still lingering along Silas’ chest. “...But it’s good to see you here as well.”

Silas offers an awkward smile. Then Panto’s eyes finally return to his, flickering up and smoldering. With a grave expression, Panto tells him, “You’re looking very... handsome.” The words could be nothing more than a polite greeting, but Panto’s gaze says so much _more _.__

__Before he can stop himself, Silas has returned, “I have nothing on your beauty.” Panto’s cheeks actually flush, lightly mirroring his hair. Then his eyes are on Silas’ lips, and he takes a step forward._ _

__They’re close enough to _touch_. Silas can feel the heat of Panto’s body, and he wants it like nothing else, wants _Panto_ more than he’s ever wanted anything. That’s nothing new. But he’s done all he can to fight it, to stay away, and yet, every time they meet, there’s this _fire_ that sparks between them no matter what he tries. Panto starts to lean forward, face tilting aside, but just before they can connect, he pulls away. He breathes, strained: “Forgive me.”_ _

__Silas can’t. Something in him snaps—it’s been one too many times, one too many chances, and now the man of his dreams is right before him, dripping wet and bare, and so ripe for the taking. Silas’ arms dart up to catch Panto’s face, and he pulls it in against his—he meets Panto in a searing kiss, one that he couldn’t stop for the life of him._ _

__Panto presses back. Fireworks ignite in Silas’ chest—Panto kisses him with equal fervor, reaching an arm around his waist and gripping the back of his neck to hold him in, as though Silas would ever dare break away from it. He runs his tongue along the soft seam of Panto’s lips, and Panto opens up for him—their tongues meet in the middle._ _

__For a long, wondrous moment, that’s all they are—ravishing one another after years of pent up _want_. Silas licks out every part of Panto’s mouth that he can reach, and Panto fills him in return, surging into him and riding each dizzying wave. Their bodies pull flush together, and Silas has to pause to _moan_ , because he can feel _all_ of Panto beneath the water, and it’s too much for him to take. _ _

__Panto presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth, still holding him tight, and murmurs, “I have wanted to do that for some time.”_ _

__“As have I,” Silas admits. He can’t believe his luck. There’s so many things _wrong_ about the two of them—two different families, both from too high a station, and they’re hardly free to fraternize like this. But there’s so much more that’s _right_ , and for the moment, that’s what matters. _ _

__The spell is broken when Panto looks over his shoulder, maybe having heard something—the snapping of a twig or the footsteps of a rabbit. Silas heard nothing, too busy shivering with delight. He still knows that they have to be careful. And because of that, he steps back, taking Panto with him._ _

__Panto follows his guidance, until the two of them are safe within the willow’s keep. There, Silas whispers, “Kiss me,” and the prince of his heart obeys him._ _


End file.
